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After sixteen years of marriage, I thought my husband’s sudden habit of bringing home weekly flowers was an attempt to rekindle romance. It felt sweet, nostalgic—until the details stopped adding up. Different stories about where the bouquets came from, dirt still clinging to the stems, and finally a note tucked inside one arrangement that read, “See…
After sixteen years of marriage, the flowers felt like proof that maybe we hadn’t lost each other. Every Friday, Dan came home with a bouquet and a shy smile, and each time I softened—until I noticed the inconsistencies. Different stories about where the flowers came from. Dirt on the stems. Then a folded note fell…
After sixteen years of marriage, I thought I knew my husband completely. Love had become quieter over the years—more about errands and school pickups than candlelit dinners. So when Dan suddenly started bringing me flowers every Friday, I let myself believe it was a spark returning, proof that we still mattered. Each bouquet softened…
